


Wild Strawberries

by honeybun, Sabou



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slow and Sweet, english countryside au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25265929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou
Summary: Time passes slow and sweet in the small town Diarmuid and his Grandmother reside in. Farmers markets take place on Thursday and Sunday, the fishmonger makes his rounds on a Wednesday, Mr Barry and his milkcart clink up and down the narrow paths every morning before the sun rises.All is quiet and calm until he catches sight of a certain stranger.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid & The Mute, Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Wild Strawberries

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! It’s been quite a while since I posted and I have a few stories to share (unfinished, but aren’t they always?)  
> This one is fairly new and quite close to my heart - I’m hoping to maybe write four chapters in time and have it as a little series. Also just to mention, I imagine this AU as being somewhere in the early 1900s, although I haven’t been specific, also Deedee draws fairies much like Brian Froud did in my favourite book Faeries as a child! 
> 
> I also wanted to add a little note to explain that me (honeybun) and Sabo (KonaKona) discuss d&d pretty much constantly - I am the ‘writing’ part of this partnership while Sabo is the much more disciplined and prolific contributor who creates a lot of artwork for the pairing and research so we can make our stories as good as possible <3 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little story, and I cross my fingers and hope I can keep going!

Diarmuid lives in a small quiet hamlet in the South West of England, cut off from the smoke and noise of towns and far enough away from the world to worry about much. His grandmother has a crumbling cottage just big enough for the two of them which sits in between the wind of the river and the Priory Church on the outskirts of their little town. 

He’d lived there the majority of his life, and unlike the other - scarce - young people in the hamlet, he was quite happy to stay. His mother had dropped him off by the front step at a few months old, his grandmother said he was a little squirming thing amongst blankets when she’d picked him up, and ever since then he’d been hers. He wasn’t too sure about his father - neither was Gran - but he would at times fantasise when tucked up in bed who his father might be. When they went to Penzance in the last few weeks of Summer he would wonder whether his father might be a sailor or a captain of some grand ship, when Gran and him went for their annual trip to London he would wonder if his father was one of the sharp men in suits whose shoes snapped their way over cobbled streets. 

The children at the small church school had said meaner, worse things about his mother and the circumstances of his conception, but he had turned his ear. They were wrong, probably. 

There were very few young people in the village and most of them conspired since their early years to leave it. It was slow, like honey dropping off a spoon, and there was little excitement to be had in such a place. Dee’s Gran would scoff at this and remind him of the time the postman had forgotten a whole sack of letters last week, or how the milk cart had turned over due to a pothole the other month. Dee sips at his tea and nods agreeably, he hasn’t a problem with the way these things are. 

Dee and his Grandmother get along famously, and in the small hours of the morning when he hears the church bells chiming he thinks of what a terrible fate he’d be victim to without her. 

Their cottage is only small but it is perfectly sized for them both, at the moment wisteria tickles the arch above the door and bees are starting to lazily buzz around Gran’s strawberries in the long garden at the back which stretches towards the river. Dee occupies the room at the very top of the house, with windows at either end so he can see both the village and the long road to the sea. His room is carefully cleaned and curated, Gran and Dee like things clean like that. Gran always tuts when someone litters in the village, they give one another a Knowing Look and sigh simultaneously - what  _ terrible _ manners. Dee’s room is filled with carefully stacked books, and by his window which points only to the sky he has a small writing desk with splotches all over, his watercolours sit open there along with reference books cluttered by his seat. Hanging from his window are careful cut outs of faeries, their wings are made from coloured crepe paper which filters the light in wonderful ways, poking out from his bookshelves are bookmarks and pieces of scrap paper holding the place of some particularly good story, a folklore myth, an account of the Cottingley Fairies. 

He has a very pretty rug that Gran had finally allowed him after she’d found a new one on one of their antique excursions. His bed is neatly made with several blankets tucked in at the corners, his patch work blanket from Gran two Christmases ago sits on top proudly. To the right he has an oak wardrobe with tomorrow’s outfit already picked out and pressed. Gran and Dee like to do the weeks ironing while listening to countdown on the radio, Gran writes down their score - Dee rarely beats her, but he hopes he might one day. 

Dee’s favourite part of the room are his shelves - Mr Parsons from down the road helped put them up because neither Dee nor Gran are able to wield a hammer and nail, and goodness they wouldn’t want to. On his shelves lay some of his treasures. There are thimbles and delicate blown glass and other small things they’d found while antiquing in the next few towns over. They catch the number 47 bus together on a Saturday or a Sunday and wander in their favourite few stores. Dee likes little delicate things - that’s what he can afford at least - and Gran looks out for jewellery and embroidery. Dee loves beautiful things, and to have some in his own possession is almost too good to be true. Then there are other things - the empty shell of a sea urchin found on the nearby beach, empty egg sacks which everyone calls mermaid purses. There are smoothed over pieces of sea glass in various shades of green and blue. When he was younger he thought they were jewels, probably left by a sea pixie or selkie.

The rest of the house follows in a similar fashion, pictures and portraits from different artists, pots and jugs and vases, dried flowers and books and cushions. Maisie the cat likes to perch on certain cushions throughout the household, and Dee when ascending the stairs usually finds her tucked by the window waiting for him. He likes to tickle her chin and pick her up to take downstairs, ‘Gran will be making tea by now, old girl,’ Maisie chirrups in reply. 

Gran is a gentle and kind woman, and goodness is she busy. Gran has a full social calendar - clubs and church commitments and tea parties - so it does them good on a Sunday to sit and plan their week. Diarmuid even bought a pocket book from the bookshop in Dunsopp specially to note down their movements in the week. The cover is marbled and the sheets inside are all stamped with a flourishing ‘D’. 

Gran informs him of her engagements this week which Dee makes a note of, they plan what they might have for supper and Dee makes special note of anything they must buy for quiche or blackberry crumble or beetroot salad. Dee is especially excited for Thursday when the two of them will bake to no end for the church fair. There’s little he enjoys more than baking, having the whole house smell of vanilla and orange peel and strawberries, cakes lined up and ready to be taken the short distance to the church for the fair on Friday afternoon. They plan a lemon drizzle, a victoria sponge, date slices, treacle tart and Dee’s favourite carrot cake. Dee smiles and leans forward conspiratorially on his hands when Gran says that surely that will be more enough, and they can keep a few slices of carrot cake for themselves, ‘Oh, yes, Gran!’ Gran winks at him and dabs her finger across her plate to catch any surviving scone crumbs. 

The week passes slowly, happily, at the sort of pace Dee enjoys. He walks briskly in the mornings to school, where the minuscule class are discussing the ominous idea of university, which Dee lets go over his head. When he finishes his exams he isn’t sure what he wants to do, maybe join Gran at her clubs and meander through life quite happily. A bitter taste in his mouth tells him maybe that won’t be allowed. He had looked wistfully at London art college, and then morosely at the fees. London is too sooty anyway. 

After school he walks down to the stream which loops around the village and lets his brogues get a little wet by the brook. Far enough from the village he can hear only birds and the rustling of small animals. He moves through the bracken in a familiar fashion until he comes to a pond. He finds the mossy stump he usually sits on and gets out his watercolours. This is peace. 

As ever Dee allows his imagination to run away from him, he sketches wings and nimble feet and hats made from foxgloves, flower petals for dresses, minuscule cherubic faces. 

There is the crunch of a twig and Dee hears the rush of bird wings as they scatter. He tilts up his head and blinks once, twice, more. There is a man standing in front of him. 

The man has skin the colour of tanned leather, and dark brown eyes, his hair too is dark and thick. In his hands are the reigns for a horse by his side. He must have been approaching Dee for some time without him noticing, Dee feels himself turn red as silence settles between them. This is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

‘H-hello,’ Dee stammers out, biting his tongue now at how his voice is so weak and wilting. The man tilts his head downwards at Dee and in a blur he turns and leaps up onto his horse, tugging the reins. Dee watches as they gallop off. 

It takes a while for indignation to spill out, how rude! Dee covers embarrassment at his own interest with resentment, his curiosity in those dark brown eyes with malice at this strange man who snuck up on him. He wonders for a moment if he had seen his drawings and thought him silly, childish, the fairies on the page which once filled Dee with delight now look puerile and foolish. 

Nevertheless he carries on, stubbornly pushed on by his dislike of the stranger who wouldn’t even observe good manners to reply and say  _ ‘Hello’! _

He stays until the light begins to fade, only when his fingers get a little sore and the growl of his stomach demands attention does he decide to go. He packs away his materials and his reference books to head home. The tips of his brogues once again dip into the stream, and braken scratches at his bare calves. It is only a short distance to Gran’s cottage, nevertheless he feels relief when he finally sees the crooked gate at the end of the garden. The dusky light makes everything softer, Dee can hear the faint hooting sounds of pheasants in the grass and small animals hopping around. 

The light in the kitchen is on and he hears clattering and humming, Gran is a whirlwind of colours, jade beads and dangling purple amethyst earrings, her hands dipping in and out of drawers and picking up wooden spoons to taste what’s on the hob. Dee walks up the long path of the garden past the strawberry beds and bees getting their last sup of nectar for the evening. 

He thinks of telling Gran about the strange man by the stream, but doesn’t. It would only worry her -  _ don’t you go talking to strangers Diarmuid, why were you so far out of the village? _ \- he wouldn’t want to bring her something else to worry about. 

He eats and they discuss their day - sans the mysterious man - and Dee picks and fusses over his food. While Dee helps wash and put away the crockery Gran makes careful enquiries, ‘Are you warm?’ ‘Are you cold?’ ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ and so on, Dee replies feebly that he just feels a little tired. Gran’s eyes narrow, her hands search for a large mug and a green tin of tea, it isn’t long until Dee is ushered into their living room to sit and be fussed over. Gran bustles in with a tray and has him drink some of her failsafe peppermint tea to stave off any illness, she thinks he looks peaky, like he’s sickening for something. They listen to the radio and Dee distractedly reads from his book, sipping tea and munching on ginger biscuits - good for your stomach says Gran - until his eyes start to drop closed now and again. Eventually his quiet footsteps make their way up to the attic with Maisie in tow and he settles down in bed. 

Despite his weariness, he hears the church bells again and again, until it’s past one in the morning. He knows what’s bothering him, but if he doesn’t address it even to himself then he’ll be all the better for it. He knows that he’s stuck on the man, and he knows why. But finding someone handsome - and a stranger too - can only lead to trouble. He’s aware of what his classmates say - after all it’s often to his face - and he’s sure that sometimes when Gran comes back from her bridge club with firm shoulders and a stiff lip, slamming her purse down on the small kitchen table, that something must have happened. The way she won’t tell him  _ what _ makes him certain it’s something to do with him. Being the way he is. 

They’d not discussed it - he was sure they didn’t have to, Gran had raised him after all and she was well aware of every aspect of him. She knew how upset he’d get when his particular favourite friend at school wouldn’t play with him, or how he’d much rather stay in with Gran and bake or garden than be with the boys down in the village playing football. That minimised it too much, of course, but those were the ways in which Dee could attest to it. Wrap it up quickly and easily, tie it up with a bow. He felt he was - in a word -  _ different _ . 

One evening when he’d cried hard after Malcolm - the particular boy he liked in the village - had pushed him over, Gran had gripped him tight when he’d shared what word Malcolm had used. Gran had hushed him sweetly and held him tight, ‘There’s nothing wrong with you at all, my boy, not one thing.’ 

He remembered looking in Gran’s eyes which were brilliant and shining like two blue aquamarines. He hadn’t doubted her one bit. From that day things were better, just a little, and Dee had felt, if nothing else, happy. 

While he did sometimes indulge himself in vague fantasies of meeting a broad  _ ‘someone’ _ in art college he had never let it go further. He was sure that thinking any further about this man and why he was so stuck on him would do no good. No good at all. 

Dee shuts his eyes and he does not hear the bells again that night. 

By the end of the week Dee has tried his best to put the stranger out of his mind, and it isn’t particularly difficult on a Friday to do so. Gran had arranged for them to visit Dorchester this weekend - a very rare treat indeed - to wander around the grand antique shops they had there. As he finishes school he finds himself skipping - only just stopping himself - towards the church where he knows Gran will be set up. The whole village is buzzing around the stalls there - Mr Kelly’s honey stand, Ruth sells her own handmade soaps, Gran and the other ladies from the WI are in tabards and serving cake and squash to everyone who might want it. When she spots Dee she smiles and gestures to a slice of carrot cake wardened off from the rest, for him. 

Dee catches up on the small delicious gossip from the church fair - Mrs Arbuthnot had accidentally tucked her skirt into her knickers, Mr Perry the greengrocer had sneezed into sample jars of honey and had to buy all three- as he eats his slice of carrot cake. Dee is normally a picky eater, Gran and him like to eat carefully and not too much, but Dee would call himself a glutton for carrot cake. 

Dee is accosted by Mrs Perry’s small children - two girls - and their friends, and soon enough is ferrying them from stall to stall, letting them ask him silly questions and giggle. 

Dee is happy enough being teased and clung to by children when Farmer Parr makes an appearance with several farm hands by his side - he’s always had a soft spot for Gran, and they’d done well out of it for the past few years. Extra wood he had left over for the fire in winter time, a dozen eggs every month or so, apples and pears from his harvest. Gran might be sweet on him too, to be honest, but Dee finds it hard to tell. 

Suddenly he is standing absolutely still, like a spooked horse about to bolt. Tall, and as broad as a tree trunk, by Farmer Parr’s side is the man that Diarmuid came across by the stream, and he’s looking directly at him.


End file.
